Les Baisers
by Crack.Alchemist
Summary: A series of drabbles & ficlets. AU Royai. Not really spoilers. Mostly based on 2003 Anime.
1. Morning Jolt

**Morning Jolt – Rated G (Therapy)**

He knew it was horribly improper, but he loved the fact that he could see her every morning on his way to AM Calisthenics. He always turned his head and watched her through the chain link fence as she stood there in the firing yard. The way the morning sunlight glinted off of her hair, and off of the steel in the barrel of her gun as she stood there and practiced. The way her tiny hands held the sidearm; one finger gently poised on the trigger, the other hand cupping the bottom of the butt, holding her steady as she aimed and fired, only because her wrists were still too delicate the hold the heavy piece in one hand alone.

Her soldier family–mother, grandmother _and_ grandfather–would have all shot him dead if they knew how he watched her every morning on his way to AM Calisthenics. But, she was like his morning cup of coffee, his therapy for the crazy last days of the Academy. She helped him wake up when he least wanted to be among the waking world, and reminded him that he'd joined this man's army for a reason.

He also like the way he nearly jumped out of his skin when she fired, so early in the morning that it was absolutely obscene. Because she kept him on his toes at his weakest time of the day.

He hoped that, when he finally assumed his role as an official dog of the military, that he would have such people in his staff, people who would keep him on his toes when he was at his weakest moments of the day.


	2. It Ain't Dead Yet

**It Ain't Dead Yet – Rated G (Chivalry)**

He heard the cursing as he crossed the courtyard toward Examination Room #10, where he would take his final examination of the year. The light, musical voice gave him pause, even though he realized that if he stopped, he would be late.

Turning, he saw her behind him, that unbelievable lowerclassman, standing there in her school skirt and knee sock and blond ponytail, cursing at the pile of books at her feet. And before he could think about it, he turned and in five quick, smart steps was at her side.

"Allow me, miss."

Such chivalrous words had never crossed his lips in these hallowed halls. Yes, he knew how to behave like he was raised somewhere else other than a whorehouse, but here, in the Academy? Everyone was a soldier, and should be used to rough and tumble language, and even rougher and more tumbled behavior. Besides, he was an upperclassman, and, as such, didn't even need to stop and give her a hand.

So, Maes would have laughed himself silly to see him on his knees beside the dainty thing, plucking heavy books from her embarrassed fingers, tucking them under his arm and offering to help her get them to class.

He would have laughed even harder when she snatched those same books back, and, with a grudgingly grateful mumble of thanks, she demurred and turned, rushing back up the same hallway she'd just come down, leaving him standing there flatfooted and mute.

And almost late for his final examination of the year.


	3. Schoolgirl Crush

**Schoolgirl Crush – Rated G – (Books)**

It was as he tried to organize his books for the next day's classes that he found it. The slim volume must have found its way into his stack when he tried to help the girl with her books that morning.

It had a hard cover, so it _looked_ like a school book, but upon cracking the cover, he realized that it was nothing of the sort.

First, a gentle scent touched his senses. A perfume of summer flowers that must have been her daily preference to have permeated the pages of a simple notebook so utterly.

It was a notebook, with notes for a class–history, it looked like–written in a careful, dainty print that looked nothing like the printing of the other girls with which he was acquainted. There were no swirls, no letters dotted with hearts or smiles, or anything remotely silly like that.

Then he saw it on the inside cover. Right in the bottom left corner, so small he almost didn't see it.

A heart. It was heart with an arrow through it. He looked at it closely, for it seemed to have that careful print inside of it... two names, written so small that he could barely read them. Simple, concise. Practical, even. Told the entire tale without saying a word.

"Oh, hell." He gulped, then slammed the book shut.


	4. That Little Monster

**That Little Monster – Rated PG (Jealousy)**

Roy would have sworn that he didn't have a jealous bone in his body. Not him. He didn't _need_ to be jealous, especially of his _best friend_. He had plenty of female companionship, plenty of female admirers that had yet to be graced with his exquisite wit and formidable charm.

But it was burning his insides up to watch his _best friend_ gazing at her with a quiet attention, as she asked directions to one of the classrooms. He watched as Maes gave her _that_ smile and pointed her in the proper direction and had a split-second urge to _punch_ his friend. In the teeth, so he couldn't smile like that again at anyone.

He moved quickly, clutching the notebook in his hand. He slid between the two of them with swift grace and gave her a charming bow as he handed her the book and apologized for accidently taking it earlier that morning. Then he remembered the little heart in the corner, with the arrow through it and the two tiny names, and gave her a quick, secret smile. Roy almost melted straight through the ground when a beautiful rosy color touched her cheeks and those big brown eyes skittered away from him. She almost snatched the book, mumbled her thanks to both of them and walked in the direction she'd been sent.

After that, all was right in Roy's world. He even felt generous enough not to smack Maes on the back of his head as his friend pushed his glasses up on his face and tilted his head, trying to catch a peek of forbidden white cloth and skin underneath the little blue skirt she wore.


	5. Target Practice 2

**Target Practice II – Rated PG (Desire to Live)**

He was the _Flame Alchemist_, or didn't they know that? He didn't need to have any bloody weapons training. Especially at the crack of dawn, after a night of illicit drunken revelry and cards with that low-down cheat Maes Hughes.

But, of course, it wasn't his choice what the military wanted him trained in, and of course they knew who he was. That was probably the reason he was standing here in the firing range with ten other poor souls up before the first light, listening to a cruel man with a square head yelling at them about their uniforms and telling them about the inner workings of the firearms clutched in cold fingers.

Like he needed to know all about what made a gun go boom. He knew how to make _thin air_ go boom. Bullets, for him, were irrelevant. He couldn't manipulate them, not with severe consequences, so he had no use for them. He let those who cared about them work with them. If needed to take an enemy out, all _he_ needed to do was snap his fingers and–,

"_Mustang!_" Roy almost peed his pants when the man shouted directly in his face. "Think you're too good to pay attention, little State Alchemist?"

Roy cringed against the covert titters among the other students. It was too early in the morning for reminders that he wasn't the most popular person at Amestris Military Academy. He looked up into the hard eyes of the instructor with a muttered, "No, sir..."

"I didn't hear you, State Alchemist!"

"I said _no, sir!_" He yelled back. He hated drill instructors with every fiber of his being. All of them, every single one of them, thought that they had to make an example of him, and those like him, just because of the silver watch that hung from their belts.

"Damned right, you're no better than the rest of us!" The instructor growled. Pacing up the line of students, he stopped at one. "Hawkeye, step forward!"

Roy's eyebrows crawled into his hairline. He should have paid better attention. He had absolutely _no_ idea that _she_ was in this class. And what exactly was she doing in this class anyway? She was a lowerclassman!

"Cadet Hawkeye, please show our precious _State Alchemist_ that he's no better than the rest of us." The man pointed out at a target that Roy could barely see.

"Don't stand there playing with your pocket watch, boy!" More titters. It took everything in Roy's power not to jump as the man barked his orders. "Step forward and present arms!"

Roy did as he was told, and moved until he was about six paces away from the cadet. He shakily raised his weapon. He looked over at her from the corner of his eye and wanted to cringe again, mortified. Damned if she wasn't the same height as him. And here he was, five years her senior. To anyone looking, they would have been evenly matched. But, he knew, and the instructor knew, they were anything but.

"Hawkeye, present arms and fire at will!"

She didn't even take a good breath. She simply lifted her gun, placed her hand under the butt of the damned thing, wrapped her finger around the trigger and fired. Her expression never changed, and she never looked over at him.

Roy sighed to himself as the instructor looked down at the poor sod who had the unenviable task of checking the target.

"Bull's-eye." The instructor turned his glare on Roy again. "Mustang, present arms and fire at will."

He lifted his pistol and tried to sight down the barrel liked he'd been taught. It was pointless, really, because all he saw was a blurry thing that looked like a human being. He yanked the trigger, involuntarily shutting his eyes as the gun went off. And that was why he hated firing a weapon. Every time, no matter how much he tried, he always, _always_ shut his eyes when he fired. It was stupid, looked stupid, and he knew the instructor would comment on it.

He opened his eyes and waited for the inevitable. It seemed to take forever.

"Mustang, perhaps if you _looked where you were shooting_, you might have actually _hit_ the target."

Again, those painful titters, and he wanted to sink into the ground. Actually, he wanted to incinerate the lot of them, but he knew that would have gotten him a quick trip to the brig. Or worse.

Besides, he tried to tell himself, he was a soldier, an _alchemist_, even. He could take his lumps with the best of them. He straightened his shoulders and gave the instructor an implacable look that made the man actually blink in surprise.

"Hawkeye!" The instructor barked. "Again!"

The girl raised her gun, and again, hit the target dead center.

The instructor stepped to stand behind Roy, right over his right shoulder. "C'mon, Mustang," the man taunted. "Show us all that you fancy boys with your shiny pocket watches are made of better stuff than the rest of us. That all that _book learning_ beats out honest-to-goodness, get-your-hands-dirty hard work."

_He's your superior,_ Roy reminded himself, _and you can't turn him into barbeque fuel_.

"Present arms and fire like someone has a rifle pointed down your throat and you have an intense desire to live beyond your next breath." The man leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "It's either you or them."

"I wouldn't use a gun, sir," Roy muttered, then wanted to bite his tongue.

"_What?_"

He winced, knowing he deserved to have his eardrums split. "I would use my alchemy and beat them before they even closed in on me."

"Well, you're not going to use your precious _alchemy_ while I'm standing here!" The instructor roared, almost ruffling the front of Roy's hair. He got completely into Roy's personal space, until Roy could smell the coffee on the man's breath. "And if you shut your eyes again, they're all going to laugh at you again," he hissed. "Can't have that, now can we, Flame Alchemist?" Then he moved behind Roy again.

If the muscles in Roy's jaw grew any more rigid, they would snap. He raised the gun and did as the man told him. He even managed to keep his eyes open.

The instructor stepped away and waited for the report.

"Right through the forehead, sir!" came the faint report.

Roy held himself still, not even allowing himself to smile. He did look quickly at her, though. Her expression, too, was blank. Nothing told him what she thought of his shooting prowess.

"That's better." The instructor moved to stand in front of him and poked a finger in Roy's shoulder. "Never, _never_ let your enemy's taunts be proven in the heat of battle. Never let the behavior of others affect your performance, no matter who they are. You react with emotion and you will almost surely fail. If a little girl like Cadet Hawkeye can get that, surely a man full grown as yourself can grasp the concept. Lesson is over for the day." The man looked at the assembled. "All of you be here at the same time tomorrow. Class dismissed!"

Roy listened to the others scramble away and stared at the back of the instructor's head and did everything in his power to keep his _emotions_ under control. Finally, all was quiet and he looked down at the gun in his hand, wanting to fling it to the other side of the range. Bullets, to him, were irrelevant anyway, he thought mutinously.

"A suggestion, sir."

He almost jumped out his skin. Turning, he half-glared at the girl still standing next to him. "What, Cadet?" He barked.

"When you finally command your own unit, sir, make sure you have someone at your back who is a much better shot than yourself."

He looked closer and, yes, there it was. The tiniest smile at the corner of her pretty little mouth. "Oh, yeah? Well, Cadet, do you know what I can do without the benefit of one of these cursed things?" he said, drawing himself up to his full height and staring her directly in her eye. "All I need to do, Cadet, is snap my fingers like so," and he did so, "and I can raze everything from here to there," and he pointed toward the target, "No effort, no thought."

"I am well aware of your extraordinary... abilities," she said, her face still straight except for that little smile. "But... what will you do when it rains? As I recall, fire and water do not mix. Sir." She holstered her weapon and saluted her upperclassman as was proper.

And she was gone, and he was dumbfounded yet again.


	6. A Puro Dolor

**A Puro Dolor - Rated PG – (Cry)**

Through the pain that was more like a sound than a feeling, he heard it. Damp and clinging, it was a howling that overtook even the sound of crackling flames behind him.

There were wounds all over his body, one that took over the old ones left from years gone by and claimed a psychotic supremacy that made him sick. Each individual laceration had a personality all its own. The one in his side was a vindictive fuck, turning its screws tighter, trying to make him ignore the one in his shoulder, where Bradley had impaled him with that blasted sword. That wound was a slavish thing, loudest of them all, underlying the whole chorus of pain with a wild descant, screeching and wailing.

He tasted vomit in the back of his throat and relished the flavor, because it told him he was still alive.

No. That screeching and wailing wasn't the wound in his shoulder, nor the one in his side. It was something... else.

There was also a weight on top of him, pushing him into the ground, stretching his skin and causing all of his wounds to clamor for even more attention.

And was it raining outside? Because his neck was wet, warm and wet and that sound was right beside his ear now, blasting his eardrums. Nothing could drown out that _sound_. He could even imagine that his ears were bleeding from it. He couldn't moan to protest, because the smoke had taken his voice, but he tried to open his eyes.

And _that_ wound was hot, blazing hot, and why couldn't he open his eye and what the hell was that sound in his ear, drowning out all of his common sense.

"_Roy Mustang!"_ It belonged to an actual voice, a low contralto, soggy and sodden in a way he'd never heard before

Ah.

The way she said his name was the same. It was like hearing your mother call your name from miles away. You always knew who it was, just by the cant of her voice, the way she formed the first syllable of his last name, the way his first name sounded unfamiliar on her lips.

He moved. At least he thought he'd moved, because the sound suddenly choked off and the weight left him, and hand pushed and pulled and managed to get him on his back.

His right eye was blurry with blood and smoke and pain. His left eye... it was _hot_ there. And black. Everything on that side was black and hot and–,

"Lieu-Lieutenant..."

He heard and odd hiccupping sound and a snuffle. Then a watery, "S-Sir?"

"Stop crying. It hurts."

_A Puro Dolor = The Purest Pain_


	7. One Time Wicked

**One Time Wicked – Rated PG (One Night Stand)**

"Please?" Roy asked. No, begged.

As much as Riza liked to hear him beg, she still looked at him askance. "Are you insane?"

"You know you want to."

"Beside the point. You and I have an... agreement."

Roy grinned, ear to ear. "You ido/I want to!"

"As I said before, beside the point."

"But... it's so sad. He can't get a girl to save his life."

"If he would stop sucking on those tobacco sticks he might. Smoke rings are not inductive to a nice, sweaty romp between the sheets."

Roy stared. "Nice... sweaty... romp. Did you just used the words _sweat_ and romp in relation to sex?"

"Be quiet."

"You nasty girl."

"Your fault."

"Please? I promise I'll work straight through tomorrow. No breaks."

Riza stared. "No breaks?"

"None."

"No doodling on your blotter?"

"Not a one. Not even your name in a heart."

"Unbelievable. You leave the window polishing to the people hired for the task?"

"Hand on heart, I promise."

"Hm. One night. Just _one_?"

"Only one. No more."

"After, we pretend it never happened."

"Well... after you give me details, yes."

"Pervert."

"Yes. Why yes, I am. So. Will you do it?"

"Once?"

"Once."

Riza sighed. "Fine." She picked up the phone and dialed. "Jean? It's Riza. Yes, Riza. Hawkeye. No, I'm not joking–hold on." She put her hand over the phone. "Roy, he doesn't believe me."

"Convince him."

"You son of a... yes, Jean, honest, I'm not joking. I promise. Roy? He knows nothing about this. Hm, yes, I thought you might find that interesting. Now, I was wondering... how you would feel about–"

Roy put his hands over his ears and started singing a salute to the loyal canine. Hatching the idea was one thing. Listening to Riza set herself up for a nice, sweaty romp in the sheets with Jean Havoc was quite another.


End file.
